Hands
by Acherubis
Summary: Anders' observations about his lover's hands.


**Hands**

It is one of those nights. The light of the full moon illuminates her room just enough for him to find his way into her bed. He can't sleep. He tried for hours but sleep just won't come. His thoughts are restless and the silence and solitude of his room is suffocating. He doesn't want to be alone and like always as of late when he feels that way, he went to find her.

She stirs and gives a soft sound when he slips under the covers beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. Without a word, her hand slips into his and he squeezes it gently, grateful for her silent understanding and her intuitive knowledge of what he needs right now. Her touch. This amazing feeling of her hand in his.

His eyes come to rest on their entwined fingers, his hand over her smaller one. Such a simple gesture and yet it is the most intimate thing to him. More intimate than kissing. More intimate than sex. He's never been holding hands with someone before her. Not because there had been no possibility but because he never had the need to, nor the desire, nor, quite simply, the trust.

Holding hands with someone implies that there is affection, a bond and he always tried to avoid that. When he had been with a man or a woman before, it had always been for fun and pleasure but never for anything more.

With her, that's different. There's something about her that makes him _want to,_ something that makes it feel right. Maybe it is the smile that shows on her face whenever her hand is in his. Maybe it is the feel of her skin against his, the warmth and comfort of it he's craving. Or maybe it is that he just loves her hands.

Those are wonderful hands. He likes how she talks with them. They are always restless, never still for very long. When she's angry, she kneads the spot between her thumb and index finger on her left hand in calming, circular motions. When she's telling stories, her hands fly through the air in elegant, flowing motions, like little dancers, vibrant and lively. He can tell that she's impatient or insecure whenever her fingers start fidgeting with something; a pencil, a piece of paper, the hilts of her swords. He also knows when she's feeling lonely by the way she reluctantly brushes those hands against him ever so often, seeking to touch and to be touched in return.

He can look at them for hours, stroking, caressing, running his fingers along the tender flesh on the back and the callused skin on the inside, memorizing every detail. The fine, white scars. The scratches and little wounds on her fingers she never seems to be without. The pattern of lines in her palms. Her nails that always look frayed because she chews on them when she's nervous.

He knows every sensitive spot on those hands, how to lick and bite and suckle to coax the most wonderful sounds from her lips. Her wrists are especially tender and susceptible to his caresses. Placing his mouth just there, he can feel her pulse and when he then draws circles around it with his tongue, it speeds up under his touch. In a moment like this, her hands are gentle and soft and very tender. He is always amazed how he can make her moan and gasp by solely concentrating his attentions on her hands.

But as gentle as they are in those moments, as rough they can be. Sometimes, they pull at his clothes in impatient need, rake their nails over his back in ecstasy. It leaves him breathless and sets him on fire, holding him somewhere on the edge between pleasure and pain. The feeling of her hard palms on his bare skin is indescribable, the touch of her nimble fingers in just the right places with just the right pace is driving him mad.

At times, it frightens him how dependent he has become on her touch. He can't imagine being without it anymore. Her fingers combing through his hair after a nightmare make him feel safe. The back of her hand stroking his cheek leaves a peculiar feeling in his belly, like a thousand butterflies all flapping their wings at the same time. He doesn't feel so alone anymore when she threads her fingers with his and runs her thumb over his skin. The touch of her hands is his lifeline. It is soothing and caring, arousing and electrifying, frightening in its intensity.

He lifts her hand to his lips and places a kiss in her palm, inhaling the scent that clings to it; steel and leather, vanilla and almond. A smile tickles the corners of his mouth when she sighs and moves her fingers upwards, cupping his cheek. His thoughts become disconnected as he revels in the feel of her rough skin, the tension in his body slowly fading as he enjoys the warmth of her touch and he closes his eyes. Her hands will guide him into the fate. As long as he can feel those hands, he's safe. As long as he can feels those hands, he can sleep.


End file.
